The great hall was empty, save for the lone figure of Helena, Lucian's wife, sitting in front of the antique mirror that was once hers... and hers alone.
The light was dim, filtered by curtains that had not been opened for weeks. Outside, the mansion was still alive with its silent bustle: servants' footsteps, doors opening and closing, whispers between walls. But inside, in Helena's heart, everything felt dead.
She looked at her reflection as if she didn't recognize it. Not because of the slight wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, not because of the slight tremor in her lips. But because her eyes no longer sparkled. There was not a spark left of the woman who once dreamed of being loved... or of loving.
-At what point did I become like this? -she whispered.
She had been a good wife. Not perfect, but patient. She had accepted Lucian's emotional distance, his coldness, his ambition. She had followed him in his decisions, she had silenced his doubts, she had defended his family name to the world... And what had she received in return?
Lies. Deceit. Humiliation.
And a maid... a girl with eyes full of shadows... had stolen her place. At first, Helena believed it was all a phase. That Lucian would forget her. But when she saw how he looked at her... she understood that he never loved her. Not the way she needed him to. Not the way he loved Ana.
From then on, all he did was try to get back something he never had. With poison, with threats, with power... but the more she tried to destroy Ana, the more she destroyed herself.
That night, in the reflection of the mirror, Helena didn't see her enemy.
She saw a broken woman. A girl who had also been abandoned, ignored, used by a family that valued business more than affection. Viktoria was not the only one who grew up in a loveless home.
And suddenly, she understood: her hatred for Anna wasn't for Lucian... it was for herself. For not having been enough. For having expected love from someone who didn't know how to give it.
Tears slid down her cheeks, silent, sincere.
Helena rose slowly. She walked to the fireplace and pulled out a box. Inside, letters never sent. Words she once wanted to say to Lucian. Speeches she thought to shout at Anne. Testimonies of his pain.
He threw them into the fire, one by one.
He didn't need them anymore.
Not for revenge.
Not to heal.
Just to let go.
Because she understood that her scars were no different than Ana's. She just decided to dress them with hate. And maybe, there was still time to change.
Even if no one forgave her, even if she was left alone... at least, for the first time, she would be free of herself.